little by little
by ameliagianna
Summary: A series of oneshots (unless otherwise stated) based on songs. Heavy Johnlock.
1. After the Storm

_And after the storm_

_I run and run as the rains come_

_And I look up, I look up_

_On my knees and out of luck_

_I look up_

He senses it, the second the rain is about to start. He is in the flat, their flat, doing absolutely nothing—not even thinking. He sits in his chair, not even letting his mind wander for fear of it wandering in the direction of…well, _him_. But it's as if he can smell it, the change in the air, the drop in pressure, something tells him. And so he runs. He rises from the chair, cane clattering to the floor—he walks past it without even a glance—clumsily pulls on his shoes, and is out the door. He runs and he runs, his muscles aching in a way they hadn't in a long time. He's pushing himself too hard, because he wants—_needs_ to get there before the rain. And he almost manages it. But the second he's in the square outside, déjà vu brings him to a stop and he feels the rain begin to fall. He'd stood here, mere hours ago, and watched Sherlock jump. But he won't let himself stop, he can't, he needs to get there. There's still crime scene tape, and a pair of uniforms chatting several feet away, but they notice the rain and head for the coverage of their car. He continues, making straight for the very spot, the blood-soaked concrete where Sherlock's head surely broke against the pavement. He hastily ducks beneath the tape and falls to his knees, just inches from the scarlet spatter. The rainfall increases, coming down harder and faster, fighting the foreign substance off the pavement, eroding it, and John watches as the last trace of his best friend is washed away by the rain.

And then he looks up.

_And night has always pushed up day_

_You must know life to see decay_

_But I won't rot, I won't rot_

_Not this mind and not this heart_

_I won't rot_

He looks up into the slowly changing sky, against the seemingly gentle fall of rain. It patters against his skin, cold and wet, but he doesn't care. What's caught his eye is infinitely more important—a flash of jet black on the roof. He keeps watching, waiting for it again, hoping and praying it wasn't his imagination, wasn't the trick of a grieving mind. But it doesn't show again. He waits there until the rain stops, and the uniforms climb out of the car and clamber over to him. One of them asks questions that he ignores and the other shushes him, murmurs something that sounds like his name and Sherlock's, and the first one shuts up quick. The one who recognized him nods gently and John turns away without acknowledging him, already plotting a route to the roof. He knows it's not a good idea, and that likely someone else is waiting up there to make sure no one else tries to dive off in the same day. He decides he doesn't care, that he needs to see. To see what Sherlock saw, in his last moments.

And he decides to take the stairs.

_And I took you by the hand and we stood tall_

_And remembered our own land, what we live for_

There is, in fact, another uniform on the top level. Fortunately this one recognizes him, too, and lets him through. John pretends not to notice as he discreetly phones Lestrade to let him know John is here, and that his eyes stay on John constantly. John really has no intention of jumping, but he's unsure his mind won't change with what he finds. What he does find is more blood, not Sherlock's. He pauses only a second to revel in it, and is then on his way again. He chances a look back at the officer, who seems braced for something. He continues to the edge of the building and looks down. He briefly questions if he should climb on the ledge for a better look, but doesn't really fancy giving the poor guard a heart attack. He looks down, to where he had been standing when it happened. It doesn't look so small from his vantage point as he expected. When he looks back again, the uniform is gone. So he turns back and takes the opportunity to climb up, very carefully. He looks out into the young night, not even fully dark yet, and still smelling like dust after the rain. He shifts his foot and it slips, and before he's even tipped forward, there's a hand on the back of his jacket to steady him. "Who's there?" he asks, not daring to move again in case he pulls them both down. "John," the voice whispers.

And his heart stops.

_And now I cling to what I knew_

_I saw exactly what was true, but oh, no more_

_That's why I hold, that's why I hold_

_With all I have, that's why I hold_

He turns and bounds down from the edge, but when he looks up he doesn't see those ocean blue eyes looking back at him, but warm brown ones. Lestrade. "John, what the hell are you doing?" he asks. John straightens himself, tugging his jacket into place and avoiding eye contact. "Nothing," he murmurs. "Nothing?" Lestrade asks, "You damn near bloody killed yourself!" John shakes his head, "No, I didn't, I just—" Lestrade cuts in, "You just _what_?" John sighs, heavily. "I just wanted to see what he saw." Lestrade deflates, watching John carefully. "Well, you don't need be stupid about it, mate. It's dangerous up here." "I know," John replies. Lestrade nods. "Let's go have a pint, eh?"

And John says, "Okay."

_And I will die alone and be left there_

_Well I guess I'll just go home to God knows where_

_Because death is just so full and man so small_

_Well, I'm scared of what's behind and what's before_

So he follows Lestrade to a local pub, not really in the mood for drinking but wholeheartedly in the mood for getting blindingly drunk. Greg orders them a round, but John adds on a whiskey double. He orders three more before they leave, Lestrade insisting on paying the tab and John too easily giving in. He drives John to Baker Street, where he mumbles a "Thanks," and stumbles out of the car and up to the door. He's inside before he hears the car start to pull away, and ambling up the stairs. He hears Mrs. Hudson tinkering about, but pays it no mind. He's too bleeding drunk to care about anything at that particular moment, even himself. Especially himself. So he collapses back into his chair. His best friend dead and his rational mind pushed too deep to function for the night, a tear rolls down his cheeks and he lets his head fall back. He's out within moments.

And somewhere on the other side of London, Sherlock is glad John didn't jump.

* * *

**A/N: Too many ideas, too little time. Or computer space. Either way, I apologize for my crap ability to update in a timely manner. I am working on my other stories, I swear, but some need major editing and others are stuck and some just don't get as much time as they need. I just started my senior year, so I don't know how much free time I'll have to work. I am trying, though.**

**Reviews would be lovely. Thanks.**


	2. Breezeblocks

_She may contain the urge to run away_

_But hold her down with soggy clothes and breezeblocks_

"Blunt force trauma to the back of the head, unusual bruise patterns covering her torso, arms, and legs, but the cause of death was ultimately drowning," Molly tells them.

John looks closer at the purple areas of the woman's skin. "Sherlock, do you know what could've made these bruises?"

He glances at them, then back to John. "Based on size and approximate weight, I'd go with a concrete cinderblock."

"Oh, god," Molly murmurs.

"It's likely what fractured her skull, as well."

"Why?" John asks.

"I don't know, yet. But I know how she drowned."

No one asks how.

"He hit her over the head with the block," Sherlock continues, acting it out as he speaks, "and she fell into a bathtub, hence the bruising on the back of her arms and legs. She was unconscious before she hit the water. He then dropped the block on top of her to weigh her down."

"That's horrible," Molly whispers.

Sherlock nods, straightening. "Brutal."

* * *

_Muscle to muscle and toe to toe_

_The fear has gripped me but here I go_

_My heart sinks as I jump up_

_Your hand grips hand as my eyes shut_

"Sherlock, run!"

Three sets of feet pound the pavement; two side-by-side and another closing in from behind.

They run and they run until they hit a wall—almost literally. They skid to a stop and then make a right, still looking for a way out.

The change of direction gains them a few precious extra feet between them and their pursuer.

But eventually they come to the end of the line. The Thames stretch out before them, and nothing else.

Sherlock steps forward and glances down into the water. "We have to jump," he says.

"What? We'll never survive!"

"Of course we will, John. You can swim, can't you?"

"Yes, but—" John starts to argue again, but stops himself. "Okay," he sighs, walking up beside Sherlock.

"Just close your eyes and step forward," Sherlock whispers.

John closes his eyes. "Are you sure?" he asks.

He feels Sherlock's hand warm around his. "Trust me."

And they jump.

_Please don't go_

_I'll eat you whole_

_I love you so_

_I love you so_

'_Breezeblocks' – Alt-J_

* * *

**A/N: So this is short and weird and kind-of, not-really connected. But it's what I think of. This song was my summer (and then some) obsession, I listen to it ALL THE TIME. R+R?**


	3. Drop

_The flipside of sanity is the Game_

_I'm fourteen million miles away_

_I'm fourteen million miles away, away, from sane_

* * *

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this."

"_**Evening. This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?**_"

"John. What the hell—"

"_**Bet you never saw this one coming. What would you like me to make him say next? Gottle o'geer. Gottle o'geer. Gottle o'geer.**_"

"Stop it."

"_**Nice touch, this. The pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him, I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart.**_"

"Who are you?"

"_I gave you my number, I thought you might call. Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?_"

"Both."

"_Jim Moriarty. Hi. Jim? Jim from the hospital? Huh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then I suppose that was rather the point. Don't be silly, someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty. I've given you a glimpse, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big, bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you._"

"Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim, will you please fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

"_Just so._"

"Consulting criminal. Brilliant."

"_Isn't it? No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will._"

"I did."

"_You've come the closest, now you're in my way._"

"Thank you."

"_Didn't mean it as a compliment._"

"Yes, you did."

"_Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough, now. I've shown you what I can do, I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off. Although, I have loved this, this little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT, playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?_"

"People have died."

"_That's what people do!_"

"I will stop you."

"_No, you won't._"

"Are you alright?"

"_You can talk, Johnny-Boy, go ahead._"

"Take it."

"_Huh? Oh. That, the missile plans. Boring! I could've got them anywhere._"

"**Sherlock, run!**"

"_Oh, ho. Good! Very good._"

"**If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up.**"

"_He's sweet, I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. But whoops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson. Gotcha! Westwood. Do you know what happens to you if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?_"

"Oh, let me guess. I get killed."

"_Kill you? Um, no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up something special. No, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I will burn the heart out of you._"

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"_But we both know that's not quite true. Well, I'd better be off. Well, it was so nice to have a proper chat._"

"What if I was to shoot you now? Right now."

"_Well, then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. 'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really, I would. And just a teensy bit disappointed. Of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes._"

"Catch you later."

"_No you won't!_"

* * *

**A/N: If you didn't notice already, this is simply the dialogue from the end scene of 'The Great Game'. **

**Key (just in case): **Sherlock. **John.** _Moriarty._ _**John/Moriarty.**_

**I just thought these lines ('Drop', by Blue October) really held the essence of this scene, and the Sherlock/Moriarty relationship as a whole. I suppose none of this is really mine, though. Oh, well. What do you think?**


	4. Hold On to What You Believe

_I, I can't promise you_

_That I won't let you down_

_And I, I can't promise you_

_That I will be the only one around_

_When your hope falls down_

* * *

They're in the middle of a fight, John and Sherlock. Arguing over Sherlock's recklessness, Sherlock's messes, Sherlock's…well, they're arguing about Sherlock. John's holding his own surprisingly well, and Sherlock is getting irritated. And then he does it, Sherlock spits out a simple barb that makes John go utterly silent, and suddenly the argument is over. Sherlock's won, by default, because John's unable to continue. Forfeit. Sherlock revels in it for only a moment before he realizes John's still standing there, staring at the floor, lost in his own mind. Sherlock addresses him, but he doesn't respond. He does it again, and John barely looks up, eyes heavy, and he shuffles out of the room without a word.

Sherlock's mind is instantly at work, running over their tense exchange for what might have triggered such a reaction from the doctor. It had to be the last thing he said, because there were no other signs of distress (besides the obvious) preceding. He examines everything in that statement, from the words themselves to the tone of his voice to the way he had looked at John when he said it—nothing seemed out of the ordinary for such a fight. Yet John was somehow hurt by the minuscule insult.

Sherlock decides he needs more data. He can't make an accurate deduction if the subject isn't even present; so he finds his way to John's bedroom door. It's closed, which is unusual. Sherlock gives two brief knocks, and the door swings open on the second, like John was waiting for him to come investigate. John returns to a sitting position on the edge of his bed, head in his hands and the heels of his palms pressing into his closed eyes.

Sherlock doesn't speak, but observes John.

Making what little progress he can, he is disappointed when the answer still eludes him. He falls back on a more direct approach, and simply asks John what is wrong.

John's fingers turn into fists at the curves of his cheeks and he stands, shoulders squared and looking Sherlock directly in the eye—and intending to give Sherlock exactly what he is looking for. Sherlock delves in again, looking for anything, until it just hits him smack in the face.

Sherlock murmurs something under his breath to himself, and John knows he's solved it. He's trembling in anticipation for Sherlock's reaction to what he's found.

He closes his eyes and waits for the questions or rattled-off explanations of his deductions, but instead he gets Sherlock's hand on his neck. He tilts his head up and opens his eyes, unsurprised when he finds Sherlock's right there in front of him.

And then Sherlock's leaning in, closer and closer as each millisecond passes, until there's a feather-light pressure against John's lips and his heart stops. It's over in an instant and when John looks back to Sherlock, he knows the detective is completely out of his element and his mind is probably going a mile a minute and what just happened is likely to never, ever happen again.

But then it does.

And, _oh_, Sherlock knows more than John ever gave him credit for.

* * *

_I ran away_

_I could not take the burden of both me and you_

_It was too fast_

_Casting love on me as if it were a spell I could not break_

_When it was a promise I could not make_

* * *

With Sherlock's lips very _intently_ on his, practically insistent, John forgets what Sherlock had said in the living room, he forgets that they were fighting, he forgets his own _bloody name_. All he can think is _Sherlock, Sherlock, oh God, Sherlock_.

Sherlock's hands are strong at John's neck, both cradling and containing, while John works his fingers into Sherlock's raven curls. Each kiss was a new blow to their carefully constructed barriers. The wall built between them—created out of necessity, but riddled with reluctance—cracked and cratered and crumbled beneath the crash of their lips.

Sherlock cannot stop the streams of information running through his mind, and discovers kissing yields much more data than he had first anticipated. _John John John John John John bites his bottom lip when he's nervous or confused grinds his teeth when he has nightmares had tea just a few minutes ago and snuck one no two biscuits while the kettle was boiling had leftover takeaway for lunch and dinner slept on his neck wrong again John John oh John_

John notices things, too. It surprises him, how much he can pick up. Sherlock's told him a million times that he never observes, but he seems to be observing Sherlock's mouth just fine. _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock hasn't eaten since this morning Sherlock Sherlock all he had was that cup of tea I made him and a single biscuit from the box hidden on top of the fridge Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock his lips are surprisingly soft Sherlock Sherlock I should feed him something before he starves Sherlock Sherlock snuck a cigarette maybe yesterday Sherlock oh God what is happening_

But then they're moving, and John's feet are moving for him as Sherlock, maybe unknowingly, is pushing him back toward the bed. Then John's knees are against the mattress and he sits and Sherlock's mouth follows so that he's bending over John and it's too much and John knows that something's wrong and he doesn't understand but his body refuses to slow down even a little and _oh God, he can't handle all this_.

And then Sherlock tenses, as if he's just realized what was happening. His lips are still against John's, and the hand clenched around John's collar is sliding away.

Sherlock stands upright. He looks down at John, sitting on the bed with lips swollen, and something clicks in his head and he's practically running out of the room and John's running after him, shouting after him and calling out apologies, but it's too late and he's out the front door and halfway down the block before John can even get down the stairs, _damn his legs_.

_Shit, shit, shit_, John's thinking, sure that he's ruined it and Sherlock's never going to talk to him again, let alone kiss him like that or anything else even remotely as _mind-blowing_, and he's slumping into his chair, exhausted and terrified and over-stimulated all at once, and then he's drifting to sleep despite all his efforts to stay awake until Sherlock returns.

Sherlock walks and walks until he is almost lost in the London streets—_almost_, if he were to look at a street sign he'd immediately know where he was and the fastest route to get back to Baker Street and John—but he can't stop walking. The kiss, or kisses depending on how you looked at it, overwhelmed his capacities and the only way to find them again was to eliminate the distraction. And since he knew he wouldn't be able to keep his hands or lips off of John while they were both in the flat, he got out. And he got out _fast_.

He lets the quiet night hum around him, only focusing on his surroundings enough to not bump into any pedestrians and letting the rest of his capacities concentrate completely on _the John problem_.

* * *

_And now this land_

_Means less and less to me without you breathing through its trees_

_At every turn_

_The water runs away from me and the halo disappears_

_I'm not whole when you're not here_

* * *

John wakes late into the night, his back and neck aching with having slept so uncomfortably in his chair. He rises and checks the flat drowsily. No Sherlock. So he retreats back to his bedroom and collapses back into bed. He falls asleep with the memory of Sherlock's kiss burning bright in his mind, whether he wants it to or not.

Sherlock could have walked for minutes, hours, or days and he wouldn't have known, all he knows is that eventually he's back at Baker Street and he goes inside and he closes himself into his bedroom.

John wakes a second time when he hears Sherlock coming in the front door. Still lying down, he waits until he hears the door of Sherlock's bedroom close as well. Then he lets himself drift out again.

He doesn't sleep, of course he doesn't. He hardly sleeps as it is, and he'll be unable to while he's still not worked out _the John problem_. He sits cross-legged on top of his sheets, barefoot but still in his clothes from the previous day. And then, fingers steepled at his lips, he lets his mind work.

* * *

_What if I was wrong_

_Oh, what if I was wrong_

* * *

John wakes for the third and final time that morning around seven—his normal rising hour. He ambles downstairs and determines the recreational areas of the flat empty, and since he hadn't heard him leave again, it means that Sherlock has locked himself up in his room for the foreseeable future.

So John goes about the usual morning routine, trying not to worry about Sherlock and failing miserably. He makes tea and thinks about Sherlock. He eats a biscuit, and thinks about Sherlock. He drinks his tea, slowly, thinking about Sherlock. He gets dressed for work while thinking about Sherlock. Then he leaves Sherlock a note on the kitchen table, right next to his microscope, saying he'll be home after his shift at the Surgery.

When he gets home, the note hasn't been touched. Nothing has moved since he left. Sherlock's coat is still beside the door, so he's still in the flat, but John's growing increasingly worried about Sherlock's state of mind after what happened between them the night before.

He finds himself in his chair, sipping at a cup of tea and thinking maybe he made the wrong decision, kissing Sherlock. Or, rather, letting Sherlock kiss him. Because it was Sherlock who initiated it, but it was him acting on what John had been feeling for the last several months. He remembers Sherlock saying that he didn't feel things the same as everyone else; that's made increasingly clear right now by Sherlock's absence. Still, the waiting was the worst part. If Sherlock would just come out of his room and tell John it wasn't going to work between them, then he could try to let it go. But just kissing him and leaving, it was throwing John all out of sorts.

Sherlock's in the exact same position when he snaps out of his subconscious, sitting on his bed. He doesn't know how much time has passed, but he gathers at least eight hours based on the stiffness of his joints and the cracking of his spine when he stands.

He's figured it out. He thinks he has. But, for now, he will be satisfied with what conclusion he has come to in _the John problem_. So he ventures out into the flat.

He finds John washing a teacup in the kitchen. John doesn't hear him come in, or so Sherlock thinks when the doctor doesn't even flinch as he pads in.

As Sherlock approaches, John sets down the cup and turns to meet him.

* * *

_But hold on to what you believe in the light_

_When the darkness has robbed you of all your sight_

* * *

They apologize simultaneously, and a chuckle breaks past John's gritted teeth.

But then it's silent. Neither speaks, and both heads are bowed in nervousness and anticipation.

Sherlock breaks first. He whispers John's name, and takes a half-step forward. John looks up and is leaning back by instinct, but he forces his feet to stay cemented to the kitchen floor. And then Sherlock shows John exactly what he's thinking.

They don't stay in the kitchen for much longer.

* * *

_Hold on to what you believed in the light_


	5. Timshel

_Cold is the water_

_It freezes your already cold mind_

_Already cold, cold mind_

"Sherlock!" he yells. But it's too late. His friend's jumped into the icy waters below.

John wakes with a jolt just as Sherlock's body collides with the Thames. He's shaking and sobbing as he forces the dream away from his mind.

_And death is at your doorstep_

_And it will steal your innocence_

_But it will not steal your substance_

"John?" he hears from the hall. Several moments pass before he remembers that Sherlock's fine, Sherlock's alive and here and perfectly fine.

"Sorry," he chokes out, not looking directly at the tall silhouette in his doorway, "bad dream."

"Don't apologize," Sherlock tells him. It sounds like an order.

John looks up and just barely catches the glint of the hall light on Sherlock's eyes. He breathes, in and out, until his heartbeat's regular again. "Okay," he whispers.

_But you are not alone in this_

_And you are not alone in this_

_As brothers we will stand and will hold your hand_

_Hold your hand_

Sherlock doesn't stick around, and John's grateful. The dreams hadn't let up, and Sherlock had been back for nearly three months. John had experienced similar traumatic nights shortly after he returned from Afghanistan, but these were so much worse.

He lies back down and closes his eyes, wills himself to sleep. Not dream, but sleep.

When he wakes the next morning, only mildly refreshed and rested, he tries not to notice Sherlock's gaze on him whenever John's not looking.

_They'll go away eventually_, he tells himself. He repeats this to Sherlock that night over dinner at Angelo's. Sherlock merely hums an agreement at him and pushes at his barely-touched chicken parmesan with his fork.

John doesn't eat much more after that, and they leave.

He stays up entirely too late watching telly, and falls asleep on the couch. He last remembers Sherlock hunched over his microscope in the kitchen while some wretched infomercial blared into the lounge, telling him miracle weight loss secrets.

The dreams come again, always slightly different but with the same essential idea—Sherlock falling to his death.

Just as Sherlock's thrown up his arms in surrender and looks down at the distance between himself and the ground, something changes. Nothing that John can see, but that he can sense.

Sherlock looks back up and turns to John, staring directly at him. "Not tonight," he whispers. "I won't die tonight."

And the dream fades.

It takes him several minutes to find his way out of unconsciousness without the usual 'jolt'. He's thrown across his bed, and Sherlock's footsteps recede down the hall and disappear into his own bedroom.

John's mind is still groggy, and he lets himself be swallowed into sleep again.

The dreams don't stop. No, he's not so lucky. But sometimes, Sherlock simply refuses to die.

And John finds that's enough.

_But I will tell the night_

_And whisper, lose your sight_

_But I can't move the mountains for you_

_Timshel – Mumford & Sons_


	6. Ribs

_This dream isn't feeling sweet_

_We're reeling through the midnight streets_

_And I've never felt more alone_

_It feels so scary, getting old_

* * *

"_John? Will you come walk with me?_"

"Jesus, Sherlock, it's one in the morning."

"_Please?_" he pleads over the phone.

John sighs, and hangs up. He needn't answer, Sherlock already knows.

John meets Sherlock on the sidewalk outside, and pulls his jacket tighter around him.

Sherlock looks worse than John expected. His eyes are dark and sunken, his hair is disheveled, and even though his scarf is tied messily around his pale neck, John can still spot the bruises.

He takes a step closer, not ignoring the way Sherlock flinches away but desperate for any heat that may be radiating off of his friend. "What happened?" he whispers.

Sherlock looks down at the pavement. John sees now the way his shoulders bob back and forth just slightly, and he realizes Sherlock's shaking.

They walk for a long time, ending up two or three miles from where they met at John's. Sherlock doesn't talk at all.

But John still listens. Even though he's not speaking out loud, John can imagine what Sherlock's thinking. Probably because he's thinking the same thing.

_When will this all end? Will it ever get better?_

Unconsciously, John shakes his head. Until Sherlock gets out of that home, the abuse will continue. It was Mycroft's solution, and eventually the younger Holmes will have to make the same leap.

John remembers when he found out—it wasn't long after Mycroft had left for Uni. And with the absence, Sherlock became more of a target than ever.

John had begged Mycroft to take Sherlock with him. To get him away from that place. But, unfortunately, their father would never allow it. And going to the police never seemed an option to the Holmes boys.

But now, as seniors, the time was almost upon them. Stay or go. John did everything to encourage Sherlock's leaving for Uni, even helping him when he slacked in class—if he hadn't, he wouldn't need help, the idiot genius.

Now, as they walk in silence, John considers whether or not Sherlock will make it to graduation. Before he cracks, and does something he won't have the chance to regret.

Sherlock had never discussed suicide, not explicitly. But John picked up on the signs, nonetheless.

He has to say something, he thinks, anything to extinguish the silence.

"It'll get better," he says. It's the only thing he can think to say.

"No, John," Sherlock murmurs, "it won't."

* * *

_We can talk it so good_

_We can make it so divine_

_We can talk it good_

_How you wish it would be all the time_

* * *

When they've finally circled back to John's, it's nearly four.

They both stop outside on the sidewalk, exactly where they were only three hours ago. Nothing has changed, not really.

"Come inside," John says.

"But—"

"Inside." It's not a plea.

John makes tea. His parents are, luckily, out for town for several days, and his sister Harry is taking advantage of that and off partying.

They settle in on the floor of John's room, cross-legged and slumped forward, facing each other.

"I don't understand why you don't go to the police," John says quietly.

"Because that worked so brilliantly for my mother?" Sherlock asks bitterly.

"I mean…" John says, "I just mean that you should be trying to get out, is all."

"What does it matter?" he asks, and John realizes his meaning.

"Sherlock," he murmurs, "don't."

"Don't what, John?"

"Don't talk like your life is nothing," he whispers, looking down into his lap.

"I only thing I am to him is another punching bag," Sherlock states.

"Don't talk like that, Sherlock, because your life means something. You are brilliant and mad and you mean something."

"Not to him."

"To me, Sherlock!" John barks, and then softens, "You mean something to _me_."

* * *

_You're the only friend I need_

_Sharing beds like little kids_

_We'll laugh until our ribs get tough_

_But that will never be enough_

* * *

Sherlock stares at John, wide-eyed and confused.

John stands up, turning away from Sherlock, and wipes at a tear that hasn't fallen yet. "You bloody idiot," he chokes.

John sits on his bed, head in his hands. "Why can't you see that you're everything to me?" he whispers.

There's a long time when the only sound in the room is John's occasional sniffling. He isn't crying, but he got damn close, and he hates himself for it.

But then Sherlock's in front of him. John didn't even hear him get up, but he can feel Sherlock's presence so close to him.

"John," Sherlock whispers, and his voice makes John look up at his face.

Sherlock, ever-stoic and emotionless, is actually crying. The sight of it breaks John, and he buries his face into Sherlock's stomach.

But Sherlock pulls John's face away tilting it back up toward his. He falls gently to his knees in front of John so that they're on the same level.

"You're the only thing that's kept me alive this long, John," he says. "I see now that _you_ are my life. And you matter more than anything else."

John fails to contain a small sob.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispers.

And John nods in his hands.

"Never leave me," John commands, pulling himself into Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock lets out a wet laugh. "Never let me leave," he chuckles.

"Never," John agrees, finding Sherlock's lips with his own.

John wakes wrapped in Sherlock's arms, the both of them having fallen asleep on top of the covers.

Knowing how little sleep Sherlock gets, he slowly gets free of the lanky body and then leaves him to rest.

John wanders out to the kitchen, intending to make tea. He finds Harry slumped on the counter, clinging to a cup of coffee.

"Ah, Johnny boy. Good night?" she teases, still gravelly with her hangover.

John smiles. "Yeah," he says. "Good night."

* * *

_I want them back_

_The minds we had_

_Our thoughts_

_Move 'round their heads_

'_Ribs' – Lorde_

* * *

**A/N: I SUBMIT TO TEENLOCK. Damn you, Lorde, and your Grammy-worthy sounds of adolescence. (And yes, the lyrics aren't necessarily in the correct order. Whoops.) **


End file.
